


Problems with Local Denim Topology

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: ((extremely slightly)) chubby Hermann, Chubby Newt, Critiquing rhetoric as foreplay, Look i'm. I just love chubby Newt. The world needs more so here I am, M/M, Newt vs jeans, [Ariana Grande voice] it's equality, look it's exactly what it says on the tin, spoiler alert the jeans win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 17:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is how, when the chaos of Newt’s life finally settles down into something approximating normal (one apartment, one nine-to-five job, one handsome husband, and no kaiju), he finds himself struggling to pull on an old pair of skinny jeans.





	Problems with Local Denim Topology

When the world doesn’t end and the war clock ticks down to zero, Newt is slightly surprised to find that he doesn’t remember how to relax. 

After a decade of increasingly stricter rationing, eighty-hour work weeks, and monthly near-death experiences, Newt finds it hard to adjust to life in a world not in extremis. Despite the fact that he and Hermann are both receiving generous military pensions that they could easily retire on, he can only stand a month of not working before he feels like he’s going to die of boredom. Newt knows he’s never, never, never ever going back to the military (rationing? mandatory physicals? no thanks) and he’s too high-strung for academia, so he bites the (capitalist) bullet and gets a research job in the private sector. Hermann joins up with the mathematics department at a nearby university and lands a tenured position within weeks of their official joint retirement from the PPDC. 

Hobbies, once a luxury afforded only to those not dedicating their every waking moment to fighting off thousand-tonne living nightmares, are suddenly accessible again. Hermann builds computers on his days off, and Newt picks up his guitar and plays for hours on end. Hermann starts to curate a veritable library of classic literature, and Newt expands his already impressive manga collection. Hermann takes up baking everything from cookies to extravagant meals and Newt takes up, well, eating. 

This is how, when the chaos of Newt’s life finally settles down into something approximating normal (one apartment, one nine-to-five job, one handsome husband, and no kaiju), he finds himself struggling to pull on an old pair of skinny jeans. 

After a few minutes of a fierce Newt-vs-denim battle, he manages to drag the pants past his thighs and, after another brief struggle, succeeds in yanking the denim up over his hips. He takes a short breather, shaking his legs out and trying to remember if he’s always had this much trouble shimmying into his jeans in the past. “Hey, Hermann?” Newt calls, slightly out of breath as he tries ineffectually to make the two halves of his fly a little more contiguous. 

“Yes?” Hermann asks, smirking where he’s been watching from the doorway of the bedroom, and Newt startles violently because  _ since when is Hermann so quiet, he needs to buy his husband a bell if he’s going to spend his saturdays sneaking up on poor, defenseless bioengineers--  _

“--Is there something you needed, or are you just going to stand there looking scandalized?” Hermann continues, looking a bit concerned but mostly just sort of dryly and sarcastastically amused in a very classically Hermann-y way. 

Ah. Right. He’d wanted to ask--“Did you put my jeans through the dryer?”

“Mm. Might’ve.” Hermann takes a step into the room and leans against the wall. “Why?” 

“Hermann, dude, c’mon! These were my favorite pair and they’re a  _ rayon blend _ , man, they shrink when you dry them!” Newt gestures towards his open waistband for emphasis, distantly aware that he’s starting to pout. 

“Newton.” Hermann breaks in with a slightly smug eyebrow raise, “you realize that nobody’s put rayon in clothes for years?” 

“Well, clearly these must have some sort of semisynthetic fabric that is prone to shrinkage, or these jeans would still fit. Quod erat demonstrandum, bro,” Newt huffs, turning his attention back to his jeans as Hermann makes his way across the room to sit on the edge of their bed. 

“I think that’s a logical fallacy,” Hermann says, gesturing for Newt to come closer. 

Newt complies, shuffling forward until Hermann catches him by the wrist and tugs Newt in to stand at the edge of the bed, between his open legs. 

“Don’t critique my rhetoric, you dick, we’re married,” Newt gripes, but still lets out a pleased hum when Hermann’s hands settle onto his waist and begin to trace the tattoos that cover his torso. 

“Love’s no excuse for linguistic laziness,” Hermann tuts, all false pomposity and implacable propriety and sharply raised eyebrows in that way he has when he’s determined to drive Newt eight kinds of crazy. “You were affirming the consequent. I was hoping you might’ve picked up some form of proper argumentation after sharing my brain, but alas. No such luck,” Hermann teases, his fingers dipping slightly below the edge of Newt’s waistband. 

“Affirming the--Hermann, jesus, I can’t focus on fallacies when your hands are doing that--” 

“What I’m saying is that there may be more than one reason why this,” Hermann gives a meaningful, if ineffective, tug on the zipper of Newt’s jeans, “seems to be giving you so much trouble.” 

Newt considers this for a moment before he twists around in Hermann’s grasp and turns back to their mirror. “Huh. You think?” he asks over his shoulder, reappraising his reflection. Same messy hair, same bright tattoos, but now that he’s really looking for it, Hermann appears to be onto something.

To be fair, Newt’s never been ripped à la Raleigh Becket, or all sharp edges like his husband; depending on the severity of rationing, he normally fluctuated between being generally untoned to a little bit pudgy. He’s used to having a slight paunch at his waistline, he’s accepted that he’ll always be soft there, but now, in the still-new absence of rationing, he’s surprised to find he’s sporting the beginnings of a legitimate belly.

“Can’t believe I didn’t notice this earlier,” Newt says, softly patting the side of his gut. Hermann makes a quiet sound of agreement and leans forward to press a kiss to Newt’s shoulder. Newt’s always considered himself to have a finely tuned eye for all biological phenomena-- it’s hard to believe he’s overlooked his own weight up to this point. Now that it’s been brought to his attention, though… Newt’s a scientist before all else, and, when presented with a new specimen, his first instinct will always be to study it. 

He pinches briefly at his stomach where the soft skin spills out over his undone zipper, noting how the fabric seems determined to sit below the curve of his belly instead of at his natural waist. “That’s new for sure,” he annotates out loud, as though he’s back in the lab and dictating to a voice recorder instead of just groping himself in front of a mirror while Hermann passively watches. But whatever, it feels right, so he takes that instinct and runs with it. 

“Half-assed study in comparative anatomy from war-ration Newt to present-day Newt, part one,” Newt dictates, swiveling around to appraise his back half in the mirror and unintentionally knocking Hermann in the chest with his stomach, “half-ass is in no way an accurate description of the subject. Whole-ass or, alternatively, fat-ass seem to be more fitting descriptors. Weight seems to favor a lower distribution, e.g. hips, thighs, and abdomen, which is posing significant problems with local denim topology.” 

“Your co-investigator objects to the labeling of the subject in question as a ‘fat-ass,’” Hermann scoffs from his place on the bed. 

“Co-investigator?” Newt quips as he twists his neck to smile at Hermann, “that seems awfully bold of you to assume. What qualifies you to be my co-investigator?” 

“I think my rather intimate knowledge of the subject in question would be qualification enough,” Hermann replies with a strangely wolfish grin. Not even a second later, Newt barely manages to dodge a playful slap with an undeniably ass-focused force vector. 

“Doctor Gottlieb!” he gasps, scandalized, “I could have you written up for workplace harassment!”

“‘We’re married, you prick,’” Hermann misquotes Newt before fully collapsing back onto the bed, apparently content to continue watching. 

“Mm. Okay, subject is not a fat-ass, but does in fact  _ possess _ a fat ass. Thoughts?” 

“Subject looks positively lovely from where I’m standing. Or laying, rather.” 

“Sure,” Newt snorts, abruptly weathering a sharp pang of self consciousness as he catches his reflection in profile. The slope of his belly is pronounced where it juts out from beneath his chest and the cut of his tattoos is doing nothing to disguise the love handles forming at his hips. He breathes in as hard as he can and manages to tug the zipper of his jeans up by a few centimeters, but the moment he exhales his gut expands back to its full size and forces its way out over the fastening. Grasping a handful of belly (since when did he have enough chub to grab  _ handfuls _ of anything?), and jiggling it slightly, he scoffs and says “Jesus. I really didn’t notice I was getting this paunchy. You could’ve pointed it out sooner, man.”

He’s cupping the underside of his stomach, still somewhat surprised at how round it feels, when he turns back to face Hermann, who is-- tracking his every move like a hungry kaiju and blushing furiously. 

Huh. 

Now  _ that _ is one biological phenomenon Newt would recognize anywhere. 

“Hermann, babe, darling, my erstwhile lab partner and current love of my life, are you getting off on my getting fat?” 

Hermann shrugs one shoulder noncommittally, but the bright flush coloring his cheeks tells a different story. 

“Hermann. You’re totally into this. Look at you, you’re blushing brighter than Antares!” Newt pats his belly again and doesn’t miss how Hermann’s eyes drop to follow the movement. 

“Alright, Newton, you’ve caught me. I think you’re devastatingly handsome; in fact, I’ve always thought so. Now more than ever, if you must know. Are you satisfied or are you going to continue being a tease?” 

“Depends. Am I still a tease if I fully intend to get you off?” 

Hermann’s blush increases. “You’re positively vulgar.” 

“And you love it. Get your clothes off, I’m comin’ over there.” Newt peels his painfully tight jeans off as quickly as possible, followed shortly by his boxers. By the time Newt’s toed his socks off, Hermann has managed to strip, fold all his clothes, and locate a bottle of lubricant from somewhere on their nightstand. 

Newt flops onto the bed and shimmies around until he’s lying parallel to Hermann on the bed. He starts by pulling Hermann into a gentle kiss, but quickly turns his attention to licking a path down Hermann’s chest. He pauses a few inches above Hermann’s growing erection, staring curiously at the smooth plane of Hermann’s torso. It could be his imagination, or maybe he’s projecting, but the lines of Hermann’s ribs seem somehow less harsh than Newt’s used to. If he tilts his head and squints, he could even make the argument that the slope of his stomach is trending towards convex. It’s a subtle change, definitely something only a lover with a biologist’s eye would recognize, but it’s there nonetheless. 

“Everything alright?” Hermann asks, gently breaking into Newt’s thoughts with a tap on the shoulder. 

“Oh, yeah. Just thinking maybe you need to stop baking so much delicious food for us all the time. It’s definitely taking a toll on me, and-- no offense, but it looks like you’re not even immune.” Newt punctuates this with a playful kiss to Hermann’s lower belly. 

“Ah. Yes, I anticipated my love for black forest cake might catch up to me at some point.  _ Es ist was es ist _ .” Hermann rolls his eyes when Newt starts to giggle. “ Well, what do you expect me to do? Run it off?” 

“Fair point,” Newt agrees through his laughter. “Although I wouldn’t want you to, if you could. God knows you could use the extra insulation.” 

“I thought you said you were done teasing.” Hermann crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look waspishly displeased but mostly just looking, in Newt’s humble opinion, completely adorable.

“Oh, I am. I’m just taking my time now.” Newt squeezes some lube into his palm before giving Hermann’s already-hard length a few cursory strokes. “But I do kinda wish I’d known all I’d have to do to get you hot and bothered was outgrow a pair of jeans. We could’ve had a lot of fun back in Boston with all my old college clothes--” 

Hermann half smothers a gasp as he involuntarily thrusts his hips into Newt’s hand. “Newton, do not even tempt me with such a thing, we will not-- I repeat, we will  _ not _ \-- debauch your childhood twin bed.” 

“Spoilsport,” Newt pouts, before he lines their cocks up and begins to stroke them together in an agonizingly slow motion. “Think of it, though. I bet I could still squeeze my fat ass into the skinny jeans I bought when I was twenty, don’t you? If I was determined enough I could for sure. I dunno about any of my shirts, though. Most of my tees would probably just ride up over my gut. And my old buttonups wouldn’t stand a chance. I’d probably just end up ripping a seam, or--or killing a few buttons, more likely--” 

Hermann twitches in his hand and comes with a surprised moan, and Newt’s not far behind. Most of the resulting mess is confined to Newt’s belly, but a fair amount spills onto his hands as well. 

“So,” Newt breathes, after a few moments of silence pass, “does this count as a new kink, or…?” 

Hermann passes a hand across his beet red face. “I--I wouldn’t-- don’t call it a kink, you make me sound like--like some sexual deviant...which I….am  _ not--Newton, quit that--”  _

Newt looks up in surprise from where he’s been dragging his fingers through the sticky mess on his belly. “Sorry man. I’m still getting used to this whole my-husband-likes-that-I’m-getting-chunky thing. It’s new for me, a little bit. Much like I’m still getting used to the being chunky part of that whole thing.” 

“You know I’d still find you beautiful no matter what you looked like, right?” Hermann asks, determinedly not watching Newt consider his belly. 

“Definitely. And same to you, my man. Hey,” Newt says, his eyes lighting up mischievously, “d’ya think I can eat a lot more now? Like, capacity-wise? Instinct and my biology degree say yes, common sense says maybe.” 

“Is this your way of asking me to make you dessert?” Hermann asks, only mildly exasperated. 

“I wouldn’t say no to some cake, if you felt up to it. Besides, I feel like I burned a ton of calories just now and it wouldn’t do for me to start losing  _ this _ ,” Newt pinches a love handle with a salacious wink, “when we’re just starting to enjoy it.” 

Hermann groans and buries his face in a pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.” 

Newt pulls the pillow away and presses a kiss to Hermann’s jaw. “Love you too, dude.”


End file.
